What ran from the chilling tides in the warm sun and shrilled with joy and with nothing heavy in its heart, nothing ever in its fat little fists, but sand and salt, ran and ran, quietly chasing, back and forth in the ebb and flow of all its days. Now only wanders its lonely emptiness like a misguided spook, talking to no one. No one there to answer back, but still offering bitter-sweet memory. Terrible jobs and awful bosses, empty tasks for just enough money to buy liquor, cigarettes and bad food, just enough for the occasional sweets to satisfy the tongue and little more. Falling deeper and deeper backward in time, slower and slower. Sad songs play in the night, one night after the other. It will have to be enough to keep it from the final crash back into the easy shore and then the eventual oblivion of being washed away for the last time, wish the little lost star a goodnight in the big and cold dark sky, up there where all wishes are cast.